Whiskey Tango
by miss-emotive
Summary: This is the strand that holds me to you, he'd say, lying down beside her. This is the strand that is strong enough to keep us here. A series of UlquiorraOrihime drabbles and short stories.
1. Reunion

**Whiskey Tango**

_A series of Ulquiorra/Orihime drabbles and short stories Written to the themes of Livejournal's 30breathtakes_

By Jun-Ko

* * *

_NOTES: First published in April 2009. It's been a few years since I started, and since I was last active in the Bleach fandom or writing in general. I'd thought I'd given up fanfiction all together but I suppose I'd spoken too soon because I suddenly had the urge to go over my Ulquihime fics. Upon review, I realized just how horrible my writing was, and was overcome by the need pimp up the existing stories, haha. With luck, I might even find time to continue where I left off two years ago. (: So, without further ado, I give you Whiskey Tango. - Jun-Ko, Sept 2011_

* * *

"You accuse me of fancy talk  
When I'm just trying to find the words  
You've got a funny way of saying my name...  
But you are too polite to complain.  
Of the art of speaking plain  
I haven't gathered a thing."

- Tanya Donelly, _Whiskey Tango_

**1. Reunion**  
_( First light of morning )_

At first he thought his eyes were being fooled by the orange light filtering in through his bedroom window. He thought he'd fallen into another one of his dreams - another restless slumber he could neither control nor wake from. His mouth, hanging open; green eyes wide, staring at the widely-smiling girl in the black kimono balanced on his window sill - the last leaf before the fatal gust of wind.

"Ulquiorra."

She breathed his name like a spirit, tasting it. She tilted her head to one side.

"Long time no see."

An understatement.

It had been a century, a century since he had clawed his way back into existence; a century since he had left the ruins of Las Noches, since bribing that damned shopkeeper for a gigai, since the start of his search for the girl who had clapped her hands over his eyes. One long, unending century had passed since he had learned of her untimely demise - "Hit by a car in the rain," shortly after starting university.

(He had wondered long ago if she had been smiling before the moment of the accident.)

Suddenly conscious of his face, Ulquiorra willed the muscles of his jaw back into functionality and closed his mouth. Then opened it. Then closed it again. The cup of tea in his hands had singed his skin but he hardly noticed.

"I never thought I'd see you again." Inwardly he cursed. A century ago he would never have said something so meaningless, so unnecessary, so -

"So human," she said, in awe. "You seem so..."

Without thinking (or was it without hesitation?) Ulquiorra lifted his hand to touch hers. Another uncharacteristic move, something he would never have done without having lived in the human world for a hundred endless years and had long since shed his reservations. So instead he moved her hand away.

"Why are you here?" Ulquiorra asked simply, though not unkindly. She withdrew from him and stood tall.

"You forget, Ulquiorra Schiffer," smiled Inoue Orihime, fifth seat of Squad 4. "You were once an arrancar. Before that you were a hollow." She hopped off the sill, weightless as an autumn leaf and unsheathed her zanpakuto in one fluid motion. "And now, I am a shinigami."

Realization dawned on him. After a long pause Ulquiorra put his cup down.

"Will it hurt?"

"For a moment, I suppose," she shrugged. "But think of what it will mean."

For us, he thought he heard.

For us, she wanted to say.

Ulquiorra lifted his arms slightly in anticipation, flightless bird, as a certain light in his eyes shone, either the start of laughter or the start of tears - both equally deadly. He shut them in time with the swift swing of her sword.

The cut was clean, shoulder junction to hip. His remaining reiatsu began to dissolve quickly, along with his gigai. It hurt no more than the first time he died, in Hueco Mundo, cold and broken and wanting, reaching for her, pining for a chance to touch her, regretting that he hadn't.

Without hesitation (or was it, without thinking?) he put his hand out again, hoping it wasn't a dream. She reached for him again and this time their fingers tangled, for only a moment, though he knew it was the moment he had waited a hundred years for.

In a flash he was gone, leaving nothing in the modest apartment but the black-robed girl with sunrise hair and the butterfly hurriedly making its way to Soul Society. Orihime followed its path out of the window, from which she could see the sun burst forth, spit out by the dark horizon.

"Morning," she smiled.


	2. Remnants

**Remnants**  
#21 - Scent

I don't quite remember how it all happened. How it all ended. I just know now that it's over and in the end, I couldn't find a way to be with you. I don't even know why I had wanted to be. You were cold. You were distant. Unfeeling and silent, my solemn sentinel, demanding I eat, avoiding my gaze, spreading the cold from my heart throughout my chest like a salve that dulled my senses, bewildered and bewitching just like your scent -- which I remember, nestled in the crook of your left arm, sword in your other hand, holding me.

It was clean and crisp and dangerous all at once. It was the institutionally disinfected smell of my room in the palace, it was the clean desert scent of sand, it was dark and cold, too -- could a scent be cold? Scent is the sense related closest to memory -- I smell and remember you, I taste it on my tongue and try to hold on to the memories of the prison sentence gone wrong (because I'd enjoyed it to a certain point, hadn't I?). After battle your scent would briefly change color -- from tranquil green to blood red. I wanted to dip my tongue into you and savor it all; would you taste as calm as you acted or would you be the perfect riot of flavor and smells that I'd been trying to find forever?

As time passes, the scent fades along with the memories, like cave paintings shrivelling to atmospheric dust in direct sunlight. You saved me, though. That's the thing I haven't forgetten. I know I couldn't even if I tried.

I opened my eyes to find myself in the apartment I had always lived in instead of the dim room I had half-hoped to see. The scent of you in a cloud around me the way it always is after I've just woken up. And still in my white dress, I found a long black hair clinging to the fabric. I twined it between my two index fingers and held it up to the light; it flared green, nearly half a foot long. I ran my tongue along the silken string and felt my face crumple. Kneeling on the floor, desperately wishing for you with no recollection of the end, I cried.

No. I could never forget.


	3. The White World

NOTES: AU. Contains themese that some may find disturbing. Or just weird. All the same, enjoy. _Rewritten June 2012._

* * *

**The White World**

( _The view from here; Vista_ )

For as long as she could remember, Sora had never allowed her to cut her hair. She didn't know why; some said that he was superstitious, others said that he simply liked long hair but every night since she was a little girl, her older brother would come into her room and sit beside her on the bed, brushing the strand counting backwards from one-hundred. With envy, she poured over fashion magazines and longed for feathered locks or sophisticated layers but no, no glint of scissor steel for her. It had always been just the ancient, heavy comb their mother had left behind and her brother's voice whispering in her ear.

This is the strand that holds me to you, he'd say, lying down beside her. This is the strand that keeps us here.

At night, after Sora has left and locked her room, Orihime wonders what he would do if she cut it off herself.

* * *

There is a boy from their neighbourhood who comes to visit her. When he does, Sora is always reluctant to let him in until he sees the look on his sister's face - wide-eyed, happy, profoundly lovely.

"Ulquiorra!" she smiles from behind the door's threshold.

Sora tells them, play nice, before leaving the room (although he doesn't lock the door).

Ulquiorra is only vaguely interested in the pictures Orihime has drawn and of her discovery of her literary talents - she's started a story about a young boy who gains the powers of a death god to save his friends and family from evil spirits. He only smiles and nods absently while gazing at her face. And today, like all days, he's brought her something to eat: either green tea drops, red bean paste cookies, Chinese taro buns or almond loaf, because she likes sweets. He also brings bittersweet tea to wash it all down. Orihime doesn't like the tea but she drinks it to be polite - after all, she has seen him on his bicycle, carefully balancing the thermos for the five blocks between their houses. She sips and he smiles.

On rainy days he comforts her because he knows she hates the rain. It makes her sad that she can't dance in it like she's always wanted to. He promises her that they will one day. She doesn't know that he loves her in a way that's different from the way her brother loves her. Her knowledge of such things is very, very limited.

But she likes him. She likes to look at him. Ulquiorra is quiet but kind, reserved but with energy dormant just beneath his surface. And beautiful like a girl, almost. His green eyes crackle in the light. His skin is even paler than hers, even though she hasn't been outside in years. But more importantly, he is Orihime's only contact with the outside world.

When Ulquiorra leaves, Sora always makes sure to lock Orihime's door, so she's never escorted him out of the house. Instead she watches him from her tower room window, watching as he waves goodbye to her before mounting his white bicycle and pedalling away. Watching as the dark smudge of him disappears into the white-washed cement landscape she wants so badly to belong to. So badly, that her eyes grow heavy and her limbs grow weak, as they always do when Ulquiorra leaves, as though his visits drain her of her strength. Sora has told her before that this is part of the reason why is can never go outside; the other parts, she wonders about as she falls asleep.

One day, as Sora unbraids her hair - until he is surrounded by a sea of red - she tells him, "It hurts."

For an instant, Sora looks concerned, his fear palpable. But just as quickly he tells her, "Nonsense," and smiles. "It's just your imagination. Ignore it and it'll go away."

Despite her brother's advice, Orihime finds it hard to ignore the pain in her scalp. What else has a girl who is confined to her room have to occupy her mind? Nothing, really, other than Ulquiorra - she blushes hotly at the thought of him ever finding out just how often he crosses her mind. More and more she thinks about his eyes and his voice, his pale hands offering her sweets, as she tosses and turns in bed trying to quell the dull but insistent ache in the most secret place of herself. But when ecstacy hits, it's almost not Ulquiorra's face she imagines looking down at her but a darker, more sinister vision of him, older and harder, who feels both familiar and strange and she can't say why.

She curls in on herself like burning moth wings when Ulquiorra smiles at her, watching as she sips the tea. "It's because it's too long," he teases. "That's why it hurts." He tugs harshly at a lock that's escaped her braid and she cries out, loud enough so that Sora comes running, only to see that it's only the kids playing, no need to be alarmed. He smiles in relief but bids Ulquiorra to leave, politely, when he notices the dark shadows beneath Orihime's eyes.

In the following months, stranger and stranger things begin to happen. Harsh marks on her upper arms mottle her skin, and red welts appear on the insides of her thighs. She's embarassed to have Sora look at them but they hurt too much to be kept a secret.

Sora examines the bruises and welts, clinically and profesionally. He looks worried but tells her that she probably just hurt herself in her sleep. She doesn't believe him but nods in agreement.

"You keep getting knots in your hair, too," he tuts disapprovingly. With a bit of reluctance, he produces a pair of scissors from his sewing kit. "Maybe I should just trim it a bit, to help?"

Orihime looks at him with wide eyes. She smiles but politely declines, alarmed that her shackles might suddenly weigh less.

Shortly after, Sora begins to weave yellow flowers from the garden into her hair. To keep spirits and curses at bay, he tells her. Orihime thinks it is absolutely ridiculous but says nothing as he combs her hair, counting backwards from one-hundred, then splits it into three segments and adds the blossoms tied with white string to her braid. Then he winds it like a crimson crowd on top of her head and tells her to avoid touching them because they'll burn her skin. When Sora rushes out of the room to answer the doorbell - who she knows is Ulquiorra - he accidentally leaves the scissors behind. Orihime says nothing.

When Orihime falls asleep after Ulquiorra's visit, she doesn't dream about the sinister, handsome face that may or may not be her friend. She dreams of Ulquiorra himself. But he is cruel and smells of flowers. He grabs fistfulls of her hair with a gloved hand and hisses malice into her ears - the true reason why Sora won't cut her hair. "Your mother ripped hers right out of her skull when she saw your father with another woman. She killed them both and shot herself in the head. Sora had to clean everything up, and burnt her hair so that she wouldn't haunt you."

Jerked away by the nightmare, Orihime sits up in bed, and wonders why she's naked. The door is locked as always but the spot beside her is warm. She wraps the blanket around herself and rushes to the window, which is slightly ajar but there is nothing and no one anywhere, except for Sora who pulls up in his car, home from work.

The next day, Orihime can't quite bring herself to smile as Ulquiorra is ushered into her room. He's brought her almond cookies and the same bittersweet tea but for the first time, she refuses his offerings, claiming a stomach ache. Ulquiorra looks mildly disappointed, so she assures him that she will eat it all later. He smiles but says nothing, running a gloved finger down the spines of her books. When he leaves, she watches from the window, taking gulps of the tea as she waves goodbye. But as soon as he's gone, she pours the rest down into the garden below.

A few hours later she hears a voice, strong and clear, coming from the driveway. Her world is misty white, her vision swimming, as she gets up and opens the windows wide, shocked to see Ulquiorra down below. With his hair tied back and out of his school uniform, he looks older and harder. His face is beautiful, his hands blistered and red.

"Orihime. Let down your hair."

She doesn't fight the impulse to unwind her long, long braid, her body moving by itself as though she has done this a thousand times already. She watches the red of her locks and the yellow flowers spill like blood against the wide white view outside her window, against the world she had always wanted to belong to... until today. Ulquiorra catches hold of her braid, making her neck jerk and her scalp scream in pain as he starts to scale the wall towards her, the desire etched on every feature of his handsome face. He is too busy to hear Orihime call for her brother, who unlocks her door and sees the look in her eyes, and nods in understanding.

Standing behind her, Orihime hands him the scissors and watches as he slices through each crimson, silken strand of her bonds. Together they watch the fall, the gracefull arc of her only contact to the outside; together, hear the rush and the thud and the red splatter sound of Orihime forever giving up her desire to live in the white-washed cement landscape of a world.


	4. Gravity

**Gravity**  
#30 - I watch your back as you walk away

She didn't see them, although she had been dreaming about them for ages. Had wondered what they looked like, how they would taste upon her tongue. Salt pearl drops, melted snowflakes in the middle of the white desert with its white rubble.

Instead, she looked at him for the last time. She didn't notice the very first hints of them in the corner of his eyes because he had schooled himself too well in the art of deception, although the cyan lines on his cheeks seemed to burn brighter against the translucent parlor of his face. What she would have given to touch him, or for the blessing of his touch upon her skin.

She had imagined that they would be icy diamonds, hardening on her palm, promises. Broken emeralds. From his eyes would pour all the jewels of the Nile, molten and liquid; and he would take her and crush her to his strong chest they way he would have had things not been made so complicated. He would breathe her name into her hair and squeeze her shoulders. She would have wrapped her arms around his back and begged him to come with her --

But instead she turned, wordless and weeping, giving into the gravitational pull of the senkai gate that urged her away from the desert of his eyes. The unmerciful green that bore into her back as she disapearred from his sight forever.

Had Orihime turned, she would have seen not emeralds, no jewels, no magic, for Ulquiorra's tears were just that.

Tears.


	5. Red Sand

**Red Sand  
**_#8 - You're good at what you do_

As Ulquiorra looks down at Nnoitra's twisted form, he can't help but think that the fucker deserved it. Mangled and bloody, torn like a rag doll, he spills red flowers onto the immaculate white of this clothes, staining the sand. Ulquiorra thinks, if he wasn't careless enough to go mindlessly charging into enemy territory, then this might not have happened - but he's learned long ago that being an Espada didn't always mean one was bright. Not bright, only powerful.

It was Ulquiorra's good fortune to have been blessed with both attributes. No one else would have been able to execute this plan as perfectly as he had.

A groan from below tells him that the fool is slowly coming to. Nnoitra's spidery hand reaches up, wavering pitifully, to grasp the hemline of his shirttails.

"You... son of a..." A cough and a splatter of red, as Nnoitra makes the tremendous effort to pull himself up, using Ulquiorra as leverage. "You're... such a bastard..."

Ulquiorra absently wonders if red sand would burn into crimson glass and makes a mental note to look into it the next time it crosses his mind. But for now, having handed out Nnoitra's punishment - _the bastard will rush headlong into any situation if he thinks those shinigami are involved_, he'd realized once - he is satisfied. He is the best at these kind of things, glad for his good fortune at having been blessed with both attributes. Deception and manipulation, easy as breathing. Why else would be he Aizen's favorite creation?

Roughly, Ulquiorra jerks away and pulls his jacket out of Nnoitra's reach, who collapses back onto the cool sand, too weak to offer further protest beyond a throaty growl and contemptuous glare. He heads back towards Las Noches, intent to check up on Orihime, if only to make sure the idiot hadn't damaged her completely.

Aizen had handed her over to him, entrusted her wellbeing to him, and though he would sooner fight than acknowledge it, after a while he had grown to like it. He craved this responsibility above all else, held it above all over duties and to have Nnoitra sneaking into her room that night the way he had planned to... Well. Ulquiorra wouldn't stand for that. After all -

She was his.

* * *

_Rewritten on January 12, 2012_


	6. One Day You'll Be Just Another Regret

**One Day You'll Be Just Another Regret  
**#40 - I can hear the beating of your heart

There is nothing left.

There are the hills as they have always been and there is the moon as she has always been, and there is the palace but it lays in crumbling ruin. Lightly frosted.

I desperately care about how it is almost winter here. We do not fight our battles knee-deep in snow but white sand is worse. I desperately care about how your teeth were chattering with cold but you answered me only in fitful stares.  
Your eyes were like glass, grey-green, flecked with light. I wonder,desperately, how things used to be, before you.

You were asleep at my feet. But not breathing.  
You were asleep.

It started to haunt me, between steps in hollow halls. A near undetectable _thump-thump_,  
quiet, a murmur of oxygen and blood. I pressed my ear against the wall for a better listen, wondering what it could be. Felt unsurprised when the sound led me to your room where you stood --looking up at the moon -- because that's how it always starts.

Everything used to be simple. Everything used to be clear. You'll know why soon enough, why your scent clouds my head -- why you, precious, full of blood, could have led me to your room. You'll know why, soon enough.

An unending cycle. Waxing, waning, rusting. Fading. You smelled like a gun. I asked you why and you said, "why do you care?" Shall I tell you why? But if I did, you won't believe me. I can hear it all. Your blood singing. Your heartbeat.

I desperately care that the sound had drowned out everything else.

I look at the thing in my hand and think about how it sleeps quiet in your chest, like a child whispering prayers. It is barely audible, yet you say your friends share it with you.

"If I tore it from your chest, would I find it?"

This provokes my envy. But then I decided, no more.

I desperately care about how it is almost winter. Harder to tell but I can smell it on the air. Iron. Rust. The chatter of teeth. Your heart -- that I hold in my hand. Small as a child's, yet the hum does not stop.

I look down at you asleep at my feet.

You took my heart. And then I took yours. Cracked open your ribcage.  
Dug into the warmth.  
Found it.  
Pulled.  
You fell, asleep. Not breathing.

_I'll give it back to you if you return mine._ But you don't answer me. Not anymore.

There are the hills as they have always been and there is the moon as she has always been, and there is the palace but it lays in crumbling ruin.

What good is this moon if you are not there to look up at it. Isn't it how it starts? Now the palace has crumbled.

There is nothing left.

* * *

_**Author's note**: Nothing says "Happy Valentine's Day" than prose about Ulquiorra tearing Orihime's heart from her chest, huh? Hahaha. Happy Vday, everyone._


	7. i paper

**IMPORTANT**: This chapter contains YAOI. Just to be different, I've worked yaoi into an Ulquihime story (I rock, haha...). Also, this is the first of a kind of series within this series; this, and the other numbered chapters all tie in with the very first short, "Reunion," exploring the events leading up to Ulquiorra meeting Orihime as a soul reaper a century from the main storyline. Enjoy.

* * *

_"I've travelled_  
_that dark path to the world _  
_which comes down from this mountain _  
_just to see you _  
_one last time."_

~ Izumi Shikibu

**i. paper**

( _In the silence of the night_ )

In the silence of the night, one memory runs into another, beckons to one another, strings together like thread and tangles. A collision, sensory overload. They are not her hands but they are hands - running up and down his sides, his arms, his back. It is sweat that is running across his surfaces. And hair - bright, flame shade, her color but not her; he holds its hue in his eyes and clings to it, the way a lost child will take comfort from any stuffed bear even if not his own.

White skin that slides against the sheets and fingers that twine, mouths devouring, beneath a milky moon. The same moon that was visible from within the palace, the same moon that once hung over her like a halo...

There are no words.

With a thousand miles of nothing in all directions, it is not unthinkable to yearn for something warm, like the flesh of another. With a thousand miles of only shades, it was not unthinkable for him to have been shocked colorblind by the shade of her hair, the grey-blue flicker of her eyes, the virginal pink of her lips, quivering - sometimes in fear, disbelief, love. And he has been yearning, though unaware of it, everyday feeling the frost settle on his bones a little more without realizing why. Surprised to find himself feeling anything at all.

But he remembers the warmth of her room, not unlike this bed of fire where he is slick with sweat and arching. The warmth of her colors made him shiver, made him realize just how cold it really was.

It was Kurosaki who once said, "You've become more human." And Ulquiorra thought that he would rather give up the fight and die rather than allowing the boy the pleasure of vindication. Told himself over and over that they were just words. Meaningless, flimsy. Only static in his world of cold, efficient, white silence.

So when he found himself awake in the lonely hours of midnight-morning and scratching like a cat on Kurosaki's motel room door, there was nothing he could say. When he found himself grim with desire, the memories overflowing, the cold unbearable, there were no words. With Kurosaki's fiery hair in sight, his hot heavy body burning the frost away, his suspicious but warm eyes, his hands which were much bigger than hers, there was only silent understanding; the absence of refraction and the presence of all color in a jumbled mass of light. To speak was to give this hilarious situation dignity, to put it into words that were as meaningless and flimsy as the paper they were written upon, the note in the pocket of his jeans, where he'd written in beautiful script the address of Inoue Orihime's final resting place.

As the warmth inside of him explodes, as the other boy lowers his head and pants relief close to his ear, for no reason at all Ulquiorra feels lonely.

* * *

_Edited August 2013_


	8. ii samson

_"You are my sweetest downfall.  
I loved you first."_

~ Regina Spektor

* * *

**ii. samson  
**#3 - The look in your eyes

The sky was high, clear and perfectly blue the day that Kurosaki said to him, "I'll take you to see her."

Ulquiorra hadn't known if he could be trusted.

It had taken almost an entire month of badgering the boy -- showing up unexpectedly at his campus, kidnapping his sisters, threatening to blow up his family's clinic -- before he had even given him a second glance without first telling him, fuck off. So when the substitute shinigami finally agreed to help him, Ulquiorra had been more than just a little apprehensive. Kurosaki said it then, so casually and so lightly, with one hand jammed into his pocket, that it was hard to imagine him as the man with the hollow mask he'd fought with in the past. Half-turned from the light, he could have sworn that the boy was lying if it were not for the look in his eyes -- something in them, familiar-warm and a bit sad -- although he couldn't put a name to it, nevermind begin to understand. It was alarming.

Despite all of the trouble he'd gone through, truth be told Ulquiorra was glad that Kurosaki had still been so suspicious of him -- had he been received that first day in any other manner, he would have been greatly disappointed. Although, he thought, he could have done without being slammed against the stucco, so hard that he'd left a dent in the wall. In a way, seeing Kurosaki's scowling face was somewhat relieving; as the last little sliver of normality, and the only thing that was familiar left to him after the war ended, being that Karakura was different from anything else he'd ever known.

Navigating through a strange town would have posed no challenge to him in the past. As an Espada, he would have been able to wander at his leisure, open up a rift in exactly the right place, so that he would never have had to mingle with the its inhabitants. Ulquiorra used to take pleasure in the sight of all the tiny bodies below moving about their business, thinking the world of themselves and claiming the rights of the universe, all the while knowing that they were nothing but fleeting sparks of life -- merely debris left over from an accident that started time.

But as it was, the restrictions that had been built into his gigai, this tomb of vulernable flesh he wore as a suit, began to take its toll; even as he and Kurosaki stood at the ready, hair raised and teeth bared, Ulquiorra's powers were being sapped away. The longevity of his bodiless existence had already begun to adhere and vanish as his connection with what he distainfully thought of as his puppet body was settling more and more, sealing away all the abilities he'd taken for granted. The shopkeeper had done his work well. When Ulquiorra even found himself feeling a bit claustrophobic, being surrounded by the twenty storey buildings after the emptiness of Hueco Mundo, he realized that now there was very little left to distinguish him from the human trash he was forced to live among. Excluding his appearance, of course.

That first day, dressed in a crisp short-sleeved button up and a pair of grey-green plaid slacks, Ulquiorra could have been easily mistaken for an ordinary visitor to Minamikawase. Except for that he was still extraordinarily pale. Except for his startingly bright eyes. Except for the blankness of his face that was eerie to the early risers who saw him walking down the road in the strengthening morning light. Why in the world would a boy that young look so old? After asking (demanding) directions from an old woman who had been staring slack-jawed at him, he found the clinic and paused only briefly before walking up to the front door. After he answered the door, Kurosaki took one look at him before an uncharacteristic look of amusement passed over his features -- one that Ulquiorra had, unsurprisingly, never seen before. He found that it was an odd feeling to be looked at as though he were someone familiar and not an enemy, though he loathed to use the word friend. And it wasn't until he said, in his casual commanding voice, that Kurosaki would take him to her, did the boy sober up and finally register the situation: that the former Espada was not only in the human world, but on his doorstep.

"Get the hell out of here," he growled, flexing his reiatsu menacingly.

"You know very well that I could have blasted my way into your home," Ulquiorra lied, breezily, deciding that the boy didn't need to know anything about his own situation. "Only a stupid animal would continue to bear its fangs long after the fight has ended."

"Old habits die hard, I guess," Kurosaki glared.

"I am impressed, though," he replied, slipping his hands into the pockets of his ridiculous pants. "To think that you're communicating with words first, instead of mindlessly swinging that meat cleaver around as you would have done in the past."

Faster than he anticipated -- harder now to predict enemy movements with his slower reflexes -- Kurosaki grabbed him by the throat and whirled him around, slamming up against the wall. Ulquiorra felt it give way to the impact and conform to the back of his head, but made no reaction except to drop his hands down to his sides, careful to keep his expression blank.

The boy's voice lowered to a dangerous, almost feral growl. "First, you kidnap Inoue and lock her up like a prisoner, then you nearly kill us all and destroy my town, and now you have the nerve to just show up at my house and tell me to take you to her? Who the hell do you think you are?"

Ulquiorra didn't know whether or not to be pleased about finding that his opponent's spark, his drive, his fighting spirit had not dimmed in any way since their last encounter. He felt Kurosaki's hand tighten around his neck and watched with interest as the conflict about whether or not to kill him on the spot played out behind his eyes. The obvious answer would have been yes, of course -- if the boy posessed even an ounce of logic, he would have known that ending the former Espada right then would have saved him all of the grief that Ulquiorra planned to inflict on him, until he changed his mind about taking him to the girl. Never again would he have such an opportunity, what with Ulquiorra's diminished abililties and his own obviously superior strength.

But they both knew that he wouldn't; Kurosaki was a fierce, stubborn fighter that had always been lead by his foolish human heart -- again, that human heart -- rather than his head, and would always hesitate to take life even if it was necessary. Even now, the concept of it infuriated Ulquiorra, although he made no move to counter the boy's grip. It would have only been an empty motion. After a while, Kurosaki released him, before shoving him of of the steps and towards the street.

"Excuse this stupid animal for being more than a little suspicious, then," Kurosaki snarled, before turning to leave.

With that, Ulquiorra felt his eyes involuntarily move to the faint scar just visible above the collar of Kurosaki's shirt where, twice, his own hand had gouged a hole into him, deep enough to take his life. And he would have died, too, if it were not for... if it hadn't been for...

"I don't know what you're doing in the human world, or what you want with Inoue," Kurosaki continued, "but don't think that I'm going to take you to her just because you asked me to."

What _did_ Ulquiorra want with her? He hadn't even allowed himself a moment to think about it, which was only more proof that he was growing weak. When once, not too long ago, every single thing he did was calculated and precise to the point of absolute perfection, not a movement or a word needlessly carried out or said. Why was it that now he could not even rationalize his desire -- no! -- his curiosity about that woman.

Without realizing it, Ulquiorra's hand moved up to his own collarbone and gripped the shirt fabric there.

Not that he would ever acknowledge it, afraid to say it even to himself, but he was almost glad for how things had turned out in the end -- that he had not only failed to kill the tenacious substititute but also that he was defeated in battle, and had not died. Other than that woman, Ulquiorra had to face the fact that Kurosaki was the only other person who he was tied to, in any way. There were others, of course -- others he'd fought with through the years -- but none who had lived or were worth any more of his time. His comrades were long dead and his master was long gone. The great palace that had once been his home, so huge that every other structure he'd ever seen paled in comparison, had been reduced to nothing but smoldering rubble. Like the pyramids, everything of Aizen's ambitions and devices had been worn away and fell back into the sands. After the war, everything else he'd known had been cut down, torn apart or swept away, now only a testament to their former glory. What is left but crumbling ash?

This man, Ulquiorra thought. Bitterly. Reluctantly. This man he'd fought with, in a life and death battle high above the dome of Las Noches. This man who had seen his second, secret resurrecion and therefore had been the first to know that something about him even before his master, and not too long ago.

At least, it hadn't been very long to Ulquiorra. Every detail from the fight -- the smell of blood, the pain of a severed arm, the metallic clash of their zanpakuto -- was still as fresh and new in his mind as though they had just put their swords down. Even his scars, barely visible against his translucent skin, still tingled slightly in the mid-autumn breeze. But looking at Kurosaki now, Ulquiorra wondered if perhaps, time for him in that endless desert had not passed as he had perceived it. With only the shifting sands, the reverse-cycle moons and his agelessness, it had been difficult and fairly pointless to try and keep track. Although he remained relatively unchanged, having had no physical body to weigh him down, Kurosaki had grown a lot since. Now, he towered over him, a full head taller. Ulquiorra could sense his power radiating off of him in waves, observed his broad shoulders, long legs, his lithe but muscular frame evident even through the black fleece sweater he was wearing. Everything about Kurosaki was a coiled spring ready to pop him in the eye, and as the two of them glared at each other, he also realized that everything he had hoped to achieve all those years ago -- to prove to the girl that her savior was nothing more than a human, just another helpless mortal like she was -- meant very little now that he'd survived. Had survived, was living, laughing, thriving. Unlike himself.

Suddenly, a bitterness that Ulquiorra hadn't been expecting swept over him. It started from a certain place in his chest; the hollow hole below his collarbone that, although not currently visible, was still very much there.

Ulquiorra took a step back before turning away.

But he would be damned if he lost this fight.

"You're mistaken in assuming that I was asking," he said.

In an instant, the air grew heavy, thick and dark. Kurosaki's sudden, soundless rage was so palpable that even Ulquiorra felt the spike of reiatsu he emmited all around them, raising the fine hairs on the back of his neck and the feeling of... something close to victory that had been long forgotten. Safely turned from his opponent, Ulquiorra allowed himself the barest hint of a smile, before carrying himself as far away from the clinic as he could -- no longer with sonido, but still faster than any human eye could see.

* * *

As the only remaining radical that could not be controlled, the Soul Society had been more than happy to lock him away in Hueco Mundo knowing that, for all his power, he had no more purpose. Ulquiorra was a servant, he had always been, and now he had no master and no ambition. They had counted on that; while the other Espada had been promised power and glory, or bullied for their loyality, Ulquiorra's fate had always been to serve Aizen-sama, and did not need to be persuaded to fight for him. He sensed it, from the moment he was born -- with every one of his senses screaming in pain as the unfamiliar air hit his skin -- that the man whose shadow was looming over his body would forever be his master.

When the war had come to a grinding halt, what was left of him then was only a broken figure half-buried in sand. In their eyes, he'd become a dormant volcano -- unpredictable, seemingly calm but brimming with power. High level threat. It was because of this, and the fact that Karakura had been revealed to be the richest source of accumulated spiritual energy in the living world, that that 12th Division had created a barrier within the garganta that could be monitored and would repel any entities with reiatsu as high as his. When it was all over and done with, they left him to die of his wounds and to rot, to wander the dunes scarred and haunted by the memory of a flowergirl that would not fade.

But of course, he didn't die. His body was badly damaged, worse than anything he'd ever endured before, and so much that even his regenerative abilities were hindered. And yet, somehow, he was alive. His ashes, that had been scattered to the wind, found shelter in the remains of his former palace, in a familiar room that was nothing more than a wall and a barred window, with a perfect view of the moon. In half-sleep he found the lost pieces and bandaged himself together, devouring other hollows to replenish his strength. It disgusted him, their unwashed smells and the taste of their course flesh, but... he wouldn't die. Couldn't. There was a feeling in him that tugged and tugged, as stubborn as a habit, insisting that he live. And with it, faintly, a strange memory that didn't belong to him, rising to the surface like a bubble of air -- a child, sky blue-eyed and beaming, begging for the rest of the story.

"But that's not me," he was certain -- as he ran his new fingers through the air, like a lover would through a girl's hair, pleased with their dexterity and the familiar sight of his appendages coming back together.

He would see this to the end.

So he slept, and devoured, and slept, and recovered, and slept. The wind howled, the creatures of perpetual night lurked, and the spray of sand whipped his delicate new skin. The white of his clothes grew dingy with blood and sweat and time. But every day his wounds closed up a little more, in time with the waning and waxing of the moon. It was during those long, restless hours that, for the first time in his life, he began to dream.

* * *

All around them, the ship was alive -- crawling with children, nosy with life, and lousy with the smells of human interaction -- summer sweat and copulation. It was revolting, and enough to make Ulquiorra shudder in his skin. However, he was glad that Kurosaki had suggested that they travel to Nanshan by human means, as it would have been difficult to keep his lack of powers a secret had the boy suggested instead that they use shunpo and sonido to get there.

They hardly spoke to one another during the bus ride from Karakura to Shibuya, and the train ride from Tokyo to Osaka, with the exception of Kurosaki's vapid "please"' and thank you's" to him and to the other travellers around them. He would not have even registered the shift of accents once they reached the other city were it not for how it reminded him of the way Ichimaru-san used to speak.

They sat across from each other, still on guard, pretending to rest, waiting for the other to make the first move. Each time Ulquiorra felt the boy's reproachful gaze, he regretted the loss of his powers more and more. Often, he wondered if this trip that they were both reluctant to go on, at least with one another, was just an elaborate plan to make him suffer; whether Kurosaki actually planned to throttle him in his sleep and then leave his body far from home where no one could accuse him of his crimes. It would have been easy enough for him to do now that Ulquiorra was just another shiftless body in the sea of human waste, with absolutely no one to miss him.

"You're being ridiculous," he muttered softly to his reflection. Just like all of them.

"What was that?" Kurosaki asked, in a forcibly nonchalant tone. Ulquiorra ignored him and continued to watch the scenery, until the boy rolled his eyes and turned back to his book -- thick, heavy, pompous, in English -- only a jumble of words he couldn't recognize.

Kurosaki wanted to be a teacher. He confessed this to Ulquiorra during the two-hour stop over in the Vietnamese restaurant in Osaka; a story that had been unfolding over the course of days, starting from the afternoon when the boy found him wandering the campus grounds beneath the bowl of perfectly blue sky. And she had shared this dream of his, even going as far as to make plans to attend the University of Karakura with him and their friends.

"But she had to move to Shenzhen with her relatives," Kurosaki explained, avoiding Ulquiorra's gaze as his fingers restlessly pushed around the crumbs on his plate. "She was born in Tokyo but after her mother died, her brother took her away and found a place for them in Karakura to get away from their father. Sora practically raised her, so she was all by herself after he died. Her aunt helped support her from afar by paying for her apartment and sending her money but last year, she was given a promotion. The family moved to China, and Inoue went with them."

When Kurosaki paused and grimaced, Ulquiorra felt an odd thud coming from within his chest -- he was able to read the boy's words even before he spoke them, as though they had been written in the air.

"I haven't heard from her since," he said, softly.

"What makes you think any of that matters to me?" Ulquiorra asked, carefully watching Kurosaki's reflection in the window.

He had expected a retort, an exasperated sigh -- for how could anything that he was doing now suggest otherwise? He had, after all, gone through the trouble of piecing himself back together again, held together by memory-thread and pain; had gone through the trouble of searching for the weakest point in the garganta barrier to slide through; had carefully maneouvered himself around the city so that he would not be detected by the patrolling shinigami. And he had bartered the last of himself away, for a gigai that would ensure his safety but limit him to human means -- all for a reason he had yet to work up the courage to name. If Kurosaki believed for even a moment that none of it mattered to him, then he was an even bigger fool than Ulquiorra himself.

This had been the first time that Kurosaki shared any information about him -- about where they were going and why he had failed to detect even an ounce of her presence in Karakura. Thirty days past the morning when he first appeared on the boy's front porch, Ulquiorra had had to put up with the vague statements and half-hearted, fully-scowling replies. His only agreement had been, "I'll take you to see her," and the only other fact that he had given him was, "she doesn't live here anymore."

The night before their trip, Ulquiorra had managed to find her name in the phone book and made his way to a second story apartment that reeked of memory. Everything, from the color of the door, to the well-worn shoe prints on the steps, to the single strand of dried out red-gold hair still clinging on to the doorframe, screamed her name her face her voice. Without knowing why, Ulquiorra had, with his nails, cut out enough of the window pane to enter the darkened empty living room and stood there for a long time, staring at the blank walls. Standing in front of the parlour window and looking up at the moon, he wondered why this place that he had never visited before gave him chills. Which was surprising, especially since he hadn't been aware of any warmth before. It was odd, like trying to remember the name of the place he was born in, only to realize that there was no name, and that there was no place because it had been destroyed ages ago. When was that time, where had that country been?

But instead of answering, Kurosaki stood and left their cabin, and did not appear until evening when the crewmen had announced lights out. It had taken that long for his story to move on, so much that they were halfway to China, on a ship in the middle of the Pacific, before Ulquiorra learned that the girl had family, had someone else to cling to who wasn't himself, or Kurosaki -- the idea of which bothered Ulquiorra to no end.

* * *

He dreamed. But he never dreamed of her.

The air was stale and musty despite the lack of walls in the room. No, it wasn't even a room -- not anymore. It was an empty space on the ground with rubble outlining its borders; all that was left was a crumbling wall with a barred window and a perfect view of the moon. And that had been all it took -- she, turning briefly from the moon, left him equinox turned, sun-spun. There was light that shimmer beneath the surface of her irises that made him want to shiver against the cold. But that had been a long time ago.

This was a memory. He never dreamed of her.

But he knew that she was standing behind him.

He could smell her in the air, a sort of perfume coming from her hair, sweet and sharp, and the pungent odours coming from her underarms and between her legs, barely detectable even to his superior senses. She was always somewhat fragrant despite her immaculate condition; she had been given full use of the bath but he suspected that there would never be enough water to completely wash away her scent. He had decided that he hated it at first, until he began to long the chance to lay his head down and lose himself in the sea of her hair, to breathe her in like a bouquet.

But that had been another time, another place, that was further away from him than anything else. And it was a fact that he so steadfastedly refused to acknowledge that it had become only a slight wrinkle in his flawless demeanor. If he turned around to face it, it would vanish no matter how sudden he moved. Better to leave it then, and ignore it.

But then her voice, "you've changed." Tinkling, like bits of broken stars.

It was the look in her eyes, he decided. It was he look in her eyes, in her inarguably human expressions, that had stirred the feeling within him, so alien yet so familiar and only a dead leaf echo of something like a past life. It was not love -- that ridiculously complicated, time-consuming and absolutely wasteful emotion. It was not lust -- he was not a beast that long to tear her open and unravel her to the fullest extent of his abilities.

(Those came later.)

It was peace -- the idea of which was just as foreign to him as the thought of her touch, the definition of which he was still searching for.

"Ulquiorra."

That was when his willpower failed him. Just as he felt the ghost of her fingers around his neck, he turned. But of course, there was nothing there.

He never dreamed of her, he only ever dreamed about what lingered. Her fading perfume. Her voice saying his name. Her footsteps leading him around endlessly in the sand. He never dreamed of her, he only ever dreamed about her absence.

"I haven't changed," he said aloud, cringing at the sound of his voice being lost in the black and white empty. "I've been ruined," he explained, to nothing and no one.

* * *

_**A/N**: I know, I know. It feels a little too fast-pace. But it's almost 4 AM. I'm tired. I'm cranky. If there are any mistakes, I promise I'll correct them soon but in the meantime -- shuddup. _


	9. iii achilles

**iii. achilles**  
_(Sweet nothings; soft whisperings)_

On the final morning aboard the ship Ulquiorra's eyes snapped open at first light - a habit he'd acquired since the start of their journey. He lay still for a moment, aware of the mattress beneath him and the rocking sea beneath it. Immediately, he recognized the feeling of longing that washed over him: for this moment, this room, this foolish reality to be nothing but a part of his ebbing dream.

He could see through his peripherals the slash of ocean outside his porthole, and the rude sun beginning its ascent through the horizon. He parted his lips slightly, felt a breath he had not been aware of holding escape his mouth as he sank back into the rented bed. The minutes slipped by and he watched the light strengthen in silence. It wasn't long before he noticed the faint, foreign rhythm thumping in time with the sound of the waves. Mildly curious, he wondered what it was and where it was coming from, the dull but comforting metronome like the ticking of a clock. Or a bomb. It wasn't long before he realized that it was coming from inside of his chest, his doll heart sloshing the blood through his body. Barely audible though clear in the silence of the cabin, which was usually filled with the sound of Kurosaki turning book pages, by the shuffle-bump of movement, or the radio switching off from Nippongo to Cantonese. But this morning...

Alarmed, Ulquiorra bolted upright, quickly scanning the room. But it was deserted. He breathed out in relief, and almost put a hand over his now pounding heart before he realized what he was about to do. Disgusted, he clenched his fist instead.

Since the start of their trip, Ulquiorra had been careful to wake before, or with, his travelling companion, still wary of the possibility of being smothered as he slept and tossed overboard in the dead of night. Some small part of him at first felt foolish for still entertaining the notion but he'd reasoned that in his dimished capacity, he could not afford to be careless. As he swung his legs over the edge of the cot he glanced at the neatly packed luggage on the bed opposite to his own and concluded that Kurosaki had been up and about of a while already. He almost sighed.

Ever since they left Minami-kawase, it was clear that the boy had no intention of letting Ulquiorra out of his sight, as though he were afraid that the former Espada was planning something devious. Not that Ulquiorra blamed him, seeing as how he had done everything in his power to instill that suspicion from the beginning - hating the idea that he could be anything other than dangerous, as this was now a far cry from the truth. It wasn't until Kurosaki took it upon himself to accompany him everywhere did Ulquiorra start to think that, perhaps, it hadn't been worth the trouble; worse still was that there was nothing he could do about it. He was aware of each glance, each furtive glare, disguised behind a book or newspaper. Even with his dwindling powers he could still sense the poorly-masked reiatsu following him from deck to deck whenever he left their cabin. Vaguely, he'd wondered if this was how that woman felt as he escorted her throughout Las Noches and was surprised to feel, for the first time, something quite close to sympathy.

Now, he was alone for the first time in four days. Without Kurosaki's presence, the room felt bigger. Ulquiorra felt himself relaxing until his stomach let out a very undignified growl, and the clock on the wall told him that he'd missed breakfast. He shut his eyes, exasperated.

The first time he felt hunger, he was almost certain he was dying. Never before had he experienced such an odd sensation. As an Espada, to be hungry and tired were almost the same, and both could be remedied at once by one of two ways, more efficent than any human method. Unlike the Primera Espada, who enjoyed the oblivion of sleep if only to stave off the boredom and loneliness of Las Noches, Ulquiorra needed only brief moments of repose to gather his strength; an hour or two against a wall in his room, relaxed, eyes closed, no need for a bed at all was enough to restore his engery. That, or a quick meal of another hollow's energy, the consumption of which was no where near as hindersome or exasperating as eating a human meal beside his former adversary-turned-babysitter. Even then, he'd rarely felt hunger or fatigue, as it was only experienced on a regular basis by those who foolishly exhausted their energies on pointless battles or trysts, neither of which he'd had much use for. Now he felt it often, intensely. To say that it was grating on his nerves would have been a gross understatement.

In spite of himself, Ulquiorra had to admit that the boy had come in handy for exactly those things; the idea of navigating through the chaotic human world was enough to make him shudder. There were still too many vagaries to master, too many concepts that came into play in human interaction. Having the boy with him helped to keep things running smoothly, since 'manners' - a frivolity Ulquiorra had yet to grasp - seemed to yield better results than his own strightforward, commanding way. Moreover, Kurosaki unknowingly helped to keep his new schedule in check, like eating and waking at the same time every morning, especially since the boy had taken to rousing Ulquiorra for breakfast, being so reluctant to let him out of his sight. (Though this was far from a courteous gesture, being jabbed in the ribs at the crack of dawn. The only way to avoid it had been to wake up before him, thereby effectively keeping his routine.)

It was no wonder human operated like clockwork machinery, predictable and boring in every way. Their very existence was a bad habit in itself, their days scheduled around their bodily demands: the need to sleep everyday, and the pounding headaches and exhaustion that resulted when these needs were not met. The messy, indignant process of eating, of defication. The mindlessness of chewing. Ulquiorra hated it all, but not as much as the newfound sensitivity of his skin, now so responsive to each touch, something of which he was mercifully aware when he'd had the advantage of his hierro. It was enough to drive him mad. Never before had he been so aware of his hair brushing against the nape of his neck or the waistband of his jeans pressing tight against his hipbones. The light was brighter, and the smells were stronger. He could no longer ignore all the useless signals bombarding his brain. One could almost marvel at how humans did not die, or at least go crazy, from the sensory overload.

Ulquiorra's stomach let out another growl.

The empty room and the fact that Kurosaki had not awakened him for breakfast could only mean that he was still angry with Ulquiorra. The girl had been one of Kurosaki's closest friends and neither of them were able to sense even a hint of her spiritual pressure. Something was so obviously wrong and he had failed to give the boy the reassurance that, Ulquiorra suspected, he had been hoping for.

_Fool_, he thought, as he pulled out a fresh shirt from his haphazard pile of clothing. (Yet another inconvienence, the need to change clothes daily to avoid smelling that human stink on himself.)

The door opened and the boy stepped into the room just as Ulquiorra was buttoning up a new pair of pants. When he continued to dress without turning or acknowledging him, Kurosaki cleared his throat.

"We're going to reach the docks in a few minutes," he said, his voice a miserly grumble. "They want everyone to go up to the deck soon." When Ulquiorra failed to respond, "Did you hear me? They're clearing out the cabins, we have to hurry."

Ulquiorra belted up his pants in a leisurely pace and glanced out the porthole. Beyond it was the skyline of the nearing city - rounded structures and oddly slanting rooftops dominated the view. Even from a distance it looked to be chaotic and bustling. He imagined the glittering streets, the smoke and steam rising from food vendors into the night air as grimy-faced beggar children were ignored by crowds of over-adorned club kids and salacious businessmen. Disgusting.

"I said, did you hear me?" He was unsurprised to feel Kurosaki's hand on his shoulder, forcibly turning him around.

Ulquiorra met the boy's glare evenly. "What a senseless question," he replied, brushing Kurosaki's hand aside. "Of course, I did."

"You could have answered me."

"I have. Just now. It's no fault of mine if you assumed I hadn't heard you."

Ulquiorra turned to face him fully, feeling oddly but defiantly exposed - his shirt unbuttoned, the tattooed 4 on his chest stark black against his transluscent skin. It had been an act of contempt where the shopkeeper was concerned; all of his other markings had been removed or modified to fit a more human appearance but he left the former Espada branded as a reminder, as if Ulquiorra needed reminding.

Kurosaki's expressioned darkened. "Don't screw around with me," he warned.

"What makes you think I am?" Ulquiorra asked tonelessly, supressing a grin.

His head snapped back without warning as the boy's fist collided with his cheek. It hit him just right - immediately, he'd lost a tooth. Ulquiorra stepped back unwaveringly, though he had to rest a hand against the wall and shut his eyes to balance himself. The taste of iron flooded his mouth.

"I don't even know why the hell I'm bothering to help you! What the hell am I doing here?" Kurosaki cried. Ulquiorra could hear the hurried steps in his voice, the sound of his backpack and dufflebag roughly picked up and slung over his shoulders, the soft whoosh of air from shutting book covers. He heard the boy approach the cabin door as if to leave but then he turned on his heel and continued yell. "You've fed me nothing but bullshit since you got here. You've lied to me, you've blackmailed me, you've threatened me - why did I even expect a simple straight answer from you? Why should I help you look for Inoue?"

Ulquiorra opened his eyes, taking in his enemy's ridgid stance. This was clearly months of fear and frustration boiling over. He was almost amused.

"Tell me why, right now," the boy demanded. "Give me one goddamn reason why I shouldn't just leave you here."

And there it was again: that look, familiar-sad beneath the glare that Kurosaki was wearing. The one that gave him a chill, starting in the vicinity of his hollow hole, like the day at the clinic, in the brittle morning light. A sort of strange, creeping melancholy that he was incapable of understanding.

Ulquiorra narrowed his eyes, ever so slightly, carefully watching the boy's face while shaking off his thoughts.

"You and I both know that you don't need one." He straighted up, gauging the slope Kurosaki's shoulders, his clenched fists, in case the boy planned to lash out again. Truly, his slowed reflexes were a pain. "That I can't offer you one. It's a hopeless cause."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Everything."

Though he hadn't wanted to do it in front of Kurosaki, the taste of blood was making him sick. Ulquiorra turned his head and spat - a spray of blood and a tooth - onto the floor. The boy stared at him, wide-eyed, as though he had just done something completely unthinkable.

"You have every reason in the world to abandon this," Ulquiorra said, stepping forward. "Yet here we are, playing out this miserable farce. I offered you no reward, no explanation yet it was you who decided to take me to her anyway. What I'm curious about is, why did you agree to do it?"

Kurosaki took an involuntary step back. "What does it matter?" he growled. "You asked me to take her to you and that's what I'm doing. I don't need a reason to want to see her because I'm her friend. But I don't expect someone like you to understand that."

Ulquiorra scoffed, fighting the urge to laugh at the obviousness of his lie. "You say I'm deceiving you but you are the one who refuses to face the truth. You're hiding something, and it's killing you." Close enough now to see himself in the boy's eyes. "You speak as though you've forgotten who I am. We are not tourists on his reeking boat, we are not friends - "

"Oh, don't think I've forgotten tha- "

" - and I couldn't care less about your useless human protocols," Ulquiorra glared. "But you obviously have no trouble brushing this aside. Why is it that you can fool yourself so easily?" He could feel his heartbeat taking on a dangerous time. "Is it that instinct that keeps you from despair? Not only that but you actually seem to take comfort from your game of make-believe. Tell me, boy," the word was a sneer. "What is it that you're really doing? Because it's obvious that you're not doing this to help me."

Harder to breathe now, the room had become airless. With his back to the window, Ulquiorra's shadow loomed menacingly across Kurosaki's face.

"You're getting what you want," the boy said. Strained, too close, his conviction waning. "Why should you care about anything else?"

"Why do you care about my reasons, then?"

Bitterly, "Because I don't trust you."

"I think, you're afraid."

Without quite meaning to, Ulquiorra's hand moved towards Kurosaki.

"What it is you're hiding, is it something you don't want to face so you turn away and allow yourself to become distracted in order to ignore it?"

"Stop," the boy choked out, quietly - whispering now like lovers but far from sweet nothings. His fingers encircled Ulquiorra's wrist like a cuff, as the former Espada's hand moved towards his scar just visible above the edge of his shirt.

"Is it so bad that you're willing to stay here, even with me, to wallow in your denial?" he asked, pushing through the boy's defences, resting his palm close to his collarbone although it was far from a tender touch. Eerie, he thought, to see his black fingernails and bloodless hand against living, sun-tinged skin. "It's that pathetic human reflex, isn't it? The one you've all come to depend one - when there's something you can't stand to face, you desperately try to preserve yourselves in your daily rituals or foolish ideologies."

Then it hit, the feeling of deja vu.

_If I ripped open your chest..._

"Is that it?" Ulquiorra asked.

_... will I see it?_

Kurosaki stared at him, shell-shocked, unable to move. So close, Ulquiorra could have touched his forehead against his, although he could have had to stand on his toes to do that. With the boy's hand on his, he grew painfully aware of just how breakable he was - of how they both were - of how the warmth of his body stirred something within him, a faint buzzing on his fingertips. He could feel the hammering of Kurosaki's inarguably human heart just beneath the boy's skin, in his palm and all the way up his arm.

So it did exist. He'd known that much. It was a necessary organ, a pump primed by impulses from the brain, powering the blood through arteries that started in the chest cavity, through the major and minor vena cava before branching off into smaller and smaller vessels, delivering precious oxygen to muscle and organ before looping into the veins. So how could something so functionary, so unromantic, possibly serve as a metaphor of togetherness, of friendship and that ludicrous thing called love, as she had believed? Ulquiorra's frown deepened. It didn't make even a semblence of sense.

But then Kurosaki leaned in close, so that he could feel his breath on his face.

"You're the one who's in denial."

Kurosaki's voice was angry but passion-drained, like a child no longer crying to be heard. Ulquiorra registered the slight jolt that came with the words, as the boy twisted his arm and roughly shoved him away.

He stepped back, regarding the boy carefully. He'd touched a nerve, noting the expression of - could it be? - dismay on his adversary's face. Each line and curve read like words in a book. He would have been pleased with himself but somehow it made him think of her - uncertain, hovering above the surface of a thought as if waiting for a signal to move. Fiery hair and warm eyes, orange and red, brown and hazel-grey. He felt a thud from within his chest. Their colours were almost the same -

Suddenly, Ulquiorra had to turn away, glad to have stopped the dangerous thought that just now caressed the edge of his mind. If he had the capacity to blush, he would have. Using every ounce of his will he crossed the room unhurriedly, although every nerve was screaming for him to run, to leave the cabin and to banish such idiotic notions. He clenched the hand that had touched, the hand that was still singing with sensation. He didn't look up when he heard Kurosaki leave the room with a slam of the door.

His hand had - oh, his hand. Ulquiorra waited, to make sure that the boy was gone, before he smashed his hand through the wall.

* * *

_Author's note: Hi, everyone! I know it's been way too long since my last update but I'd like to thank whoever has beared with me this far. Like I said before, I plan to finish this series even if it kills me - though it shouldn't come to that, haha. (Hopefully...) Anyway, keep in mind that I started this series before Ulquiorra's fate was revealed in the manga, so if it seems AU to you then it's probably... because it is... ): Anyway, hope to update again soon!_


	10. iv peripheral

**iv. peripheral**  
(_Hands_)

Something was brushing against his face, tickling his lips and cheeks. Something silky, downy-soft and red - though it was not the vermillion of fire or even the crimson of blood - but the color of the sun sinking into water, the color of a million scarlet swirls diluted. It was faded but it was real, bright enough to stain the white of his clothes, the white of his skin, the white of his world. It was a spark away from supernova. It was the sudden flare of warmth to make him realize that he was freezing.

Her fingers - if they were her fingers, which was impossible because this could not have been anything more than a delirious dream - brushed the damp hair away from his burning forehead, caressed the ridge of his brow, touched the skin that sung with every new and infuriating sensation. It was gentle, when his entire life had been anything but. He shuddered in horror, shivered, cringed, and sighed with pleasure all at once.

Always, leaning over him, cradling his empty head. Sometimes her hands were everywhere, pinning him against the futon, holding him down with ease. She held him against the battering tides of his reiatsu, as it ebbed and flowed in erratic currents, then eventually just ebbed away.

He was glad for it.

"You're burning up."

He could hear the smile in her voice.

Sometimes it was impossible to bear. Sometimes he felt himself shrunken down to the size of a child, dried out like an empty shell and helpless, feeling the world around him from inside the empty spaces of his new body. Other times he was a giant overflowing his container, huge and swollen with blood. His eyelids bulged as fluid flowed into his orbital cavities, his fingers numbed and bloated with lymph. Breathing became excruciating. Even in sleep this agony worked its way into his nightmares - heated needles stabbed through him into the floor, his guts ruptured and stinking, and the very air became an operation on his skin. She was the only thing that kept him from screaming as she battened him down against this hell.

In those weeks, she was lighthouse, life raft, horizon. He never saw her, could never open his eyes without feeling a ravenous swarm of insects on his eyeballs but he could feel her there in the backroom with him, breathing gently in the dark. She never said his name, rarely spoke, and when she did her voice never rose above a whisper. But he knew it was her. She was a potent hallucination he had lapped up eagerly, feeling as he did, as human as she looked the day she had slapped him.

It had been that look that Kurosaki wore sometimes, that look they shared. One that made Ulquiorra think of her. It was that look that spoke to him more clearly than all of her cryptic, girlish shyness, her stuttering romantics. It was white-hot and confusing, a burst of anger and determination. It was not the look of fear or hesitation, not the pathetic, helpless, melancholy, self-sacrificing expression she'd worn the day he spoke to her for the first time. It was a splash of color in a monochrome world. It gave her texture and dimension, fleshing out the idea of her, lighting the wicks of her eyes until the flicker of her became a flare - brief but beautiful, leaving him singed.

She was pulse, heartbeat, warmth. She was a story that couldn't be summed up with beginning, middle and end. Like all stories, she stretched past her epilogue, refusing to end as she watched him crumble into dust, just as he'd refused an end alone in the desert world of hollow. It overlapped each other and weaved together, like a room full of voices all reciting different lines of the same fable. Even without her presence it continued to tell itself, unraveling into his ear as he slept.

Impossible to tell where it began. Maybe it was there, in the backroom of a candy store where a stowaway was in the process of disguising himself as a boy. Maybe it had started years earlier, when a young man took his baby sister from the glowing, lilting, poisonous phosphorescence of Tokyo to escape a broken home. Or maybe it had started even before that, a century ago, when a man who was so good at telling stories had decided to make them come to life; had fashioned a new country for himself in a dark wild world, and created the stowaway who had been only one of many servants he'd shaped from the wild creatures of his kingdom.

Whenever the beginning, Ulquiorra decided that it didn't matter. Because now, it had all come down to this: a smatter of syllables, a fleeting glance, and the baby who had grown into a young woman, finding the entrance to the empty kingdom where he had lived. It was a piece of jewelry wound 'round the wrist, a spotlight of moon, the fall of scarlet hair around her shoulders and over her breasts, it was the hooks on her dress - he'd counted twenty. It was with these things that the stowaway was able to recognize the realness of her breath against the fiction of his days.

Now she had vanished completely, present only in whispered words as he staggered between awake and asleep.

"It's okay now. Open your eyes."

Ulquiorra's eyes snapped open. Almost immediately, the pain of fusing bones, of seizing tendons and straining muscles disappeared, flowing out of him like it had never existed. His skin immediately forgot the feeling of pain. Sunlight was pouring into the room. There were birds whistling outside the window.

He was still covered in cold sweat but he felt fresh, energetic, the feel of breaking through a fever. And his body was tingling with sensation. Ulquiorra frowned, drew his eyebrows together, flexed his fingers, strangely aware of each muscle and tendon involved in the movement; then he realized that this would be his first trial. As an Espada, he had been in complete control of his body. Even though he was sensitive to minute changes to each of his senses, it had been easy to block out what was of no use; able to fine-tune smell and sight and hearing before battle while numbing touch. It upset him now to realize that he no longer possessed this ability, as the smell of candy and cleaning fluid and the human world outside hit him like a fist.

Silently, Ulquiorra surveyed the room, bare but for his futon and a full-length mirror mounted on one wall. He rose on shaky legs and walked, naked, to the window. Through the thin screen he saw that the last dregs of summer had given way to fall. The smell of dead-leaf decay floated in on a breeze. Ulquiorra wanted to curse. The shopkeeper had warned him that adjusting to the limits of the gigai would take time but he had not counted in losing a season.

Ulquiorra had learned of how Rukia Kuchiki was kept in a similar gigai for her lengthy stay in the living plane years ago. When he asked why it hadn't been a problem to slip her into it, why she too hadn't lost weeks battling the agony of adjusting to her gigai's limits, Urahara explained to him in a condescendingly patient tone the crucial difference between them: he knew she could be trusted, while Ulquiorra could not. Without the luxury of time or the benefit of a doubt - he knew that to try to convince the former captain that he no longer cared about Aizen's past objectives would be pointless and wasteful - Ulquiorra was presented with only two choices -

"One: To allow me to take the appropriate measures to ensure this city's safety. I will only offer you a gigai that I will design to strip you of your reiatsu completely, and to fuse itself to you so that removing it will be next to impossible." Urahara leaned back and regarded Ulquiorra critically. "I can't have you devastating Karakura while my back is turned."

"I can assure you, my interest in this town -"

"But it's a dangerous process," the shopkeeper continued, as though Ulquiorra hadn't spoken. "Theoretically it can be done but I've never attempted to do this in such a short period of time before. You're familiar with Kuchiki-san, yes?"

"Of course," Ulquiorra replied curtly. It had been because of Urahara's failure to seal the Hyogyoku within the shinigami which lead to his birth. "How were you able to reduce her to near-human without her notice, if this is supposed to be as agonizing as you say it will be?

A look of pride crossed Urahara's features. "Considering the circumstances of her stay, the gigai I gave to her allowed me to do it gradually and painlessly. She resided in this world for a number of months so breaking down her reiatsu was only frustrating and inconvenient, at most uncomfortable, for her. Unfortunately for you," the shopkeeper looked to be suppressing a grin. "This gigai will be able to dissolve most of your spiritual energy almost immediately. But adjusting to such a significant change will take time. It's risky because I can't guarantee that your new body will be able to take such a sudden fluctuation without causing permanent damage to you. Of course, there have been medicines developed by Soul Society to ease the discomfort of residing within a gigai but nothing that will benefit you. The idea of those pills is to keep the spiritual body from accidentally fusing with its physical container even after an extended period of time, and it's the opposite that we're going for. So there will be no remedy for what you'll be going through."

Ulquiorra could see one last thought behind the man's shaded eyes. "That is...?"

"That is, if you survive getting into it at all."

Ulquiorra fought the urge to narrow his eyes. "And the other option?"

Urahara leaned back, picked up his steaming teacup and took a long drink before he replied.

"Leave and don't come back."

To leave would have meant returning to Hueco Mundo, back to the days of fitful sleep and endless dreaming. Back to the empty dusty fields, the never-ending nights where bulky shadows glowered at him hungrily. Back to the emptiness of survival, the waning and waxing of the moon. He would be the last of the last, a monolith in a hollow world. To stay without the gigai would mean spending the rest of his life dodging patrolling shinigami throughout the city, maybe even the planet. The garganta barrier had been set up because of him, and if the Soul Society were ever to learn of his escape they would spare no expense to rid themselves of the last Espada. In the meantime he had had methods to mask his weakened reiatsu while in the living world, and the protection of Urahara's shop. But if - and when, as it was certain to happen - the remainder of his powers returned, impossible to say when, then they would sense him and hunt him down until they found him.

Even with the prospect of losing his powers permanently, Ulquiorra was surprised at how easy it was for him to choose.

When Ulquiorra turned away from the window he was surprised to see clothes laid out for him - underwear, socks, faded jeans and a long-sleeved button up - neatly folded on the tatami beside his futon. As he dressed he was careful to turn his back to the mirror, having no desire to see himself as a human. In the past he had been devoid of all vanity, only using the mirror in his chambers to make sure his clothes and hair looked neat if only for his master's obsession with organization and uniformity. But as he began to button his shirt, curiosity momentarily overwhelmed him. His eyes flickered over at his reflection and in a glance he saw himself for the first time.

Ulquiorra paused and stepped closer to the mirror, astonished at how different, and at the same time, how unchanged he appeared to be. Reflected on its surface was a man, more boy, who looked too tired for his age. He could have passed for eighteen, nineteen but his eyes, striking cracked green glass, were much older and his face, though angular and elegant, was etched with worry. He had been concerned with the possibility of Urahara giving him some horrible, disfigured appearance, as a joke at his expense but the shopkeeper had done remarkably well, as promised. Though Ulquiorra could still feel it pressing against his skull, the portion of his hollow mask was gone, along with the markings on his face. Even the shade of his skin, although still alarmingly pale, was no longer the corpse-white it had once been. But most importantly - his hand rose to touch it in disbelief - his hollow hole was gone. Beneath his fingers there was bone and flesh and solidness, unmarred and perfect as it never had been before. With a jolt, he thought, he looked complete. And stranger still was the dull _thud-thud_ sound that he felt, more than heard, beneath his splayed fingers, against his ribcage.

But as his hand slipped down his chest he spotted something dark hidden beneath his shirt. He moved the cloth aside. When he saw it unchanged - the tattooed _4_ in Aizen's own hand, still stark against his skin - that little warmth had begun to resonate inside was immediately extinguished.

"Should you ever forget," Urahara said, unsmiling, from the doorway. When Ulquiorra turned to face him, the shopkeeper saw the look on his face and broke into a grin. "I wanted to be here to see your reaction when you woke up."

"So glad to be the one to help satisfy your whims," Ulquiorra replied as he turned his attention back to his shirt.

A flash of something dark and formidable, and no doubt reminiscent of his time as captain of the 12th division, passed over Urahara's features at Ulquiorra's words but was gone as fast as it had appeared. He grinned once again.

"Don't forget, I'm the one who's been accommodating your requests. Hardly one to talk about whims, wouldn't you say?" His tone was amiable and playful but Ulquiorra knew better than to assume the man was being anything but serious.

"Hardly demanding," he replied, careful to keep his voice neutral. He turned to face the doorway. "I trust you've done as promised?"

Urahara threw a backpack at his feet. As it hit the ground, he heard the thud of bundled notes and rolls of coins from inside it. Ulquiorra picked it up and opened it, quickly glancing at the human money. (If the Octava Espada had been good for anything, it had been his endless restlessness, his need to create new machines, devices and trinkets which turned out to be quite valuable. The few Ulquiorra had been able to scavenge had been enough for a gigai and more than enough leftover for him to get by in Karakura.)

"I threw in a few pieces of identification for you, too," Urahara said, too cheerfully, as Ulquiorra pulled out a passport. "I took the liberty of taking your photo while you were recovering and filled out all the paperwork for you.

"By the way, there's one more thing I'd like you do for me..."

The bastard, Ulquiorra thought some time later, as the shopkeeper turned and walked down the hall, out of sight. He looked down at the bag in his hands, at the black, deadened colour his nails had always been.

For the first of many, many times he tried to decide if what he'd given up was worth what he had gained.


End file.
